Keeping Secrets
by Tahiri Solo
Summary: My first Rosethorn/Crane! Yay! A little missing moment from Briar's Book. (Obviously contains spoilers)


Keeping Secrets  
By Tahiri Solo  
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Disclaimer: The characters, places and such mentioned in this story are the property of Tamora Pierce. I own nothing and am in no way getting paid for this story. Also, if this story bears any resemblance to stories written by others, that is purely coincidental. No infringement is intended.  
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A/N: This is my first Rosethorn/Crane fic. I saw some R/C fics here on FFN, which introduced me to the idea of them together. The more I thought about it, the more I liked them as a couple! Finally, I just HAD to do a Rosethorn/Crane fic. I hope it's okay. It's my first try at one.   
This takes place a little while after where Briar pulls her back from death, when she's still recovering. A certain someone comes to pay her a visit . . .   
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"My dear, it is certainly a relief to see you well."  
  
Rosethorn glared up at the lanky Air Temple dedicate. "Don't flatter me, Crane," she managed, though, to her disappointment, her voice did not carry its usual bite. It was weak and slightly slurred, but no matter. She would recover, and until she did, her glare alone was enough to frighten any sentient being.  
  
Except for Crane. He merely smiled down at her. "I was not flattering you. I do not flatter people, as you should well know. I was simply stating a fact. You are one of the few people I can tolerate working with. Losing you would have been a disaster."  
  
Rosethorn made a face at him. "Crane, you certainly have a way of making ladies feel special. Is your charming disposition the reason you dedicated your life to the Temple and never married?"  
  
Much to her surprise, Crane only smiled again. "I would prefer not to answer that. Now, would you care for some more willowbark tea?"  
  
Rosethorn wrinkled her nose - she'd had entirely too much willowbark tea lately - but Crane helped her to sit anyway and propped pillows behind her back, pressing the cup gently to her lips. She drank, then leaned back with a weary sigh. "I hate being sick," she said passionately. "There is nothing worse than feeling like an invalid."  
  
Crane took the cup from her and smoothed her hair away from her face - a gesture that surprised Rosethorn, though she would never admit that to him. "You're lucky that fool student of yours risked himself and the girls to bring you back from the very edge of death itself." We're all lucky, he added to himself. The world simply would not be the same without Rosethorn in it.   
  
"It was a garden," Rosethorn said suddenly, snapping Crane abruptly from his reverie, her eyes seeming to stare off into nothing.  
  
"What was a garden?" Crane inquired, his eyebrows raised, hoping she was not fevered again and delirious.   
  
"Death," she answered quietly, still staring into something that only she could see. "Death was a garden. A huge, overgrown garden. It could be beautiful, absolutely beautiful - but it needed someone to look after it. It needed me. That garden was - is - the challenge of a lifetime." She finally met his eyes, her voice now taking on a pleading tone which startled Crane to hear coming from Rosethorn. "First and foremost, I'm a gardener. How could I walk away from something like that? The images of it are still eating away at me, like that's where I'm supposed to go."  
  
Crane took one of Rosethorn's callused hands in both of his elegant ones, squeezing gently. "You're needed here, and you know that. Briar was willing to risk his own life to bring you back to us. He loves you - we all do. The garden can wait. It's waited all this time, and it can wait more. Think of it this way. This will just give it time to become even more overgrown, and gods know you love a challenge." He smiled faintly before his face grew serious again and he continued. "The world simply would not be the same without you terrorizing us all."  
  
"It's not like you to be so sentimental, Crane," Rosethorn growled. "I didn't know you care - " Her voice was cut off by a fit of wracking coughs.   
  
"Shh," Crane said. "Rest your voice. Here. Drink this." He pressed the cup of willowbark tea to her lips again, and she drank gratefully. When she finally handed the cup back to him, he gently wiped her mouth with a cloth that had been sitting on her nightstand; for when she had been coughing, tea had sprayed out of her lips to land on her creamy skin.   
  
When Rosethorn finally managed to find her voice again, she looked at her longtime rival with narrowed eyes and demanded, "What in Mila's name has gotten into you? You're acting all concerned and nice, and I want to know why. What kind of plan do you have up your habit sleeves this time?"  
  
Crane recoiled, the look in his eyes slightly hurt, making Rosethorn regret her words. He was a rival, yes, but he was also her friend. He seemed to be genuinely concerned about her wellbeing - perhaps she should try being a bit nicer to him.  
  
Yeah, right, Rosethorn thought to herself with a mental snort.   
  
Crane's next words, however, made her reconsider her last thought. "Rosethorn," he said softly, almost pleadingly? (No, it couldn't be, Rosethorn thought), "we've been friends for years. Yes, I know we've also been rivals and less than civil to each other at some points, but we've still remained friends. We haven't killed each other yet, so that has to count for something. Believe it or not, but I would be most unhappy if something ever happened to you."  
  
Rosethorn's lovely brown eyes widened with shock at colleague's words, and she struggled to hide her surprise from him.   
  
"A lovely sentiment," she finally managed in something like her old voice, with its old sting. "Now, would you kindly leave me alone so that I can rest?"  
  
"No," Crane said simply, with that familiar spark in his eyes that was present nearly every time they fought. Neither would admit it, but they both, in an odd way, enjoyed their fighting. Though they had rather detested each other when they first met, they had eventually - and reluctantly - become friends. A mutual respect had formed, born out of working together for so long. Their bickering was a familiar dance they continued to go through, out of more habit than any real dislike of each other - though there were indeed times when they drove one another up the wall.  
  
"Get out," Rosethorn demanded mock-angrily, her own eyes sparkling as well.   
  
"Now, now," Crane protested, his voice and manners as elegant as ever. Rosethorn suspected that he acted so imperiously simply to irk her - and she was probably at least partly right. "I came all the way out here to reassure myself that you are indeed well, dragging myself away from my work, and this is how you treat me. I should think that even you would have better manners than that, Rosethorn."  
  
In response, Rosethorn grabbed the cloth from her nightstand and threw it at him. She hid a laugh behind her hand and turned it into a cough as it landed directly on top of his head. "You know, Crane, I think that look rather suits you," she said seriously, managing not to laugh as he glared at her.  
  
His glare only lasted a moment, however, and he began laughing, plucking the cloth from his head and throwing it back at her. Rosethorn joined in his laughter until her exhaustion finally overcame her, and she yawned hugely.  
  
"That's it," Crane announced, having noticed her yawning. He stood up. "You've overexerted yourself, and you need to get some rest." He covered her gently with a blanket, while Rosethorn managed a sleepy glare up at him.   
  
"Who do you think you are, acting all protective - my father?"  
  
Crane sent her a smile that made her stomach flutter - though she would sooner give up her plants than admit that, even to herself. Instead, she firmly decided that her "butterflies" were merely a strange, lingering effect of the blasted blue pox.   
  
"What, I can't worry about an old friend?"  
  
"I suppose," she admitted, though grudgingly. "But watch that you don't smother me, or I swear I will send every plant within a mile of the Air Temple growing towards you until they choke you in your sleep."  
  
"You've threatened me with that before," Crane said calmly. "You need to find some new threats, or else people will think you're losing your touch."  
  
"You would try even the gods' patience," Rosethorn shot back. "And you're certainly trying mine. Now get out."  
  
Crane smiled again. "Very well, my dear. I shall return at a later point in time to check in on you again, and hopefully by then you'll have some new threats ready to hurl at me."  
  
Then, without any warning whatsoever, Crane bent and kissed Rosethorn lightly on the forehead, stunning her into speechlessness. "Sleep well," he told her softly, then left the room, shutting the door behind him. Rosethorn could only stare after his retreating form, silently cursing herself for allowing him to affect her this way. It had only been a friendly kiss on the forehead, nothing more!   
  
So why had it rendered her to speechlessness?  
  
With a disgusted sigh, Rosethorn rolled over onto her side and pushed her confusing thoughts to the back of her mind, once again chalking them up to aftereffects of her illness, and allowed sleep to come.   
  
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The first dedicate and chief mage of the Air Temple leaned against the wall by his friend's door, his eyes closed as he tried in vain to slow the rapid beating of his heart. As he stood there, Crane gradually became aware that this strange feeling came over him nearly every time he was near Rosethorn.  
  
Why?  
  
But as much as Crane fought against it, part of him knew the answer.  
  
He quickly made the gods-circle on his chest. "Gods protect her," he said very softly.  
  
He took a deep, steadying breath as he realized just how close he had come to losing her. But despite his struggles, tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.   
  
Not even bothering to wipe away his tears, Dedicate Crane whispered to himself, something that it had taken him years to realize.   
  
"I love her."  
  
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Dedicate Lark, taking a break from her weaving, stepped out of her room to check in on Rosethorn.   
  
And make sure that she hasn't murdered Crane, Lark added to herself with a mental chuckle.   
  
As she headed down the hall to her friend's room, she suddenly stopped short as she heard Crane's familiar voice speaking . . . only now it sounded different than she had ever heard it before. It had a tender, almost pleading quality to it that stunned Lark to hear coming from the usually irritable Air Temple dedicate.   
  
His words, however, stunned her even more than his voice:  
  
"I love her."  
  
Lark's hand flew to her mouth to stifle her gasp, and she withdrew silently into her room so that she would not be seen.   
  
"Crane loves Rosie?" Unaccountably, Lark began to giggle. Oh, this should be interesting!  
  
I can't tell her, she thought to herself. Crane would kill me. Or Rosie would kill Crane.   
  
This was certainly a complicated situation!   
  
"Well," Lark murmured to herself, "I'll keep his secret. At least, for now."  
  
Smiling to herself, Lark returned to her weaving. 


End file.
